In Friendship's Guise eBook

“I wish you could see yourself,” he howled.
“It’s not exactly the awakening of Venus.
You wouldn’t be undressed, so we had to
tuck you away as you were—­some chaps helped
to bring you here.”

“You beggar!” growled Jack. “You
look as fresh as a new penny.”

“Two whiskies is my limit, old boy—­I
don’t go beyond it. And I had a page black-and-white
to do to-day. Stir yourself, and we’ll have
breakfast. The kettle is boiling. Wait—­I’ll
bring you a pick-me-up.”

The pick-me-up, compounded on the principle that like
cures like, did not belie its name. It got Jack
to his feet and soothed his head. The two men
were about of a size, and Dickens loaned his friend
a shirt and collar and a tweed suit, promising to
send his dress clothes home by a trusty messenger.

“No; I’ll attend to that,” demurred
Jack, who did not care to tell where he lived.

He nibbled at his breakfast, drank four cups of strong
tea, and then sauntered to the window. It was
drizzling rain, and the streets between the river
and the King’s road were wrapped in a white mist.

“This sort of thing won’t do,” he
reflected. “I must pull up short, or I’ll
be a complete wreck.” He remembered the
brief, sad note—­with more love than bitterness
in it—­which he had received from Madge in
reply to his letter of explanation. “I
owe something to her,” he thought. “She
forgave me, and begged me to face the future bravely.
And, by heavens, I’ll do it! I hope she
doesn’t know the life I’ve been leading
since I came back. Work is the thing, and I’ll
buckle down to it again.”

Fired by his new resolve, Jack settled himself in
a cozy corner and lighted a pipe. With a stimulating
interest he watched Dickens, who had finished his
black-and-white, and was doing a water color from a
sketch made that summer at Walberswick, a quaint fishing
village on the Suffolk coast. He blobbed on the
paint, working spasmodically, and occasionally he
refreshed himself at the piano with a verse of the
latest popular song.

“By Jove, this is Friday!” he said suddenly;
“and I’m due at the London Sketch Club
to-night. Will you come there and have supper
with me at nine?”

“Sorry, but I can’t,” Jack replied,
remembering his promise to Sir Lucius Chesney.
“I’m off now. I’ll drop in to-morrow
and get my dress-suit—­don’t trouble
to send it.”

Dickens vainly urged a change of mind. Jack was
not to be coerced, and, putting on a borrowed cap
and overcoat, he left the studio. He walked to
Sloane square, and took a train to the Temple; but
he was so absorbed in a paper that he was carried
past his station. He got out at Blackfriars,
and lingered doubtfully on the greasy pavement, staring
at the sea of traffic surging in the thick, yellow
fog. He had reached another turning-point in
his life, but he did not know it.